


Whoo Knew?

by oceaxe



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Draco Malfoy, Auror Harry Potter, Auror Partners, Biracial Harry Potter, Co-workers, Friends to Lovers, H/D Pet Fair 2016, M/M, Matchmaking Services, Mutual Pining, Owls, Pining Draco Malfoy, Post-Hogwarts, Smut, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2016-10-19
Packaged: 2018-08-17 09:58:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8139877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceaxe/pseuds/oceaxe
Summary: Despite having had a crush on his Auror partner for years, Draco's been biding his time and waiting for the perfect opportunity to make his case. But when Harry subscribes to a new wizarding personals service, Draco gets a wake-up call. With new each message that arrives for Harry from a hopeful suitor, it becomes more and more clear that the time to act has arrived.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to AmoretteHD for the multiple rounds of beta! All of your suggestions were gold and I only wish I had been able to fully incorporate more of them.
> 
> For [Prompt #107](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Td1Xj4ZNIqFDdQLtMpkOWEqn2hI5TEx8tEtrEU1u1U8/edit).

It was not for the faint of heart, being more than half in love with your colleague. It could be especially challenging when it consumed most of your waking thoughts but you had no current intention of acting on it. Luckily, Draco had a number of strategies for maintaining his patience. In lieu of doing all the things he wanted to do with (and to) Harry, he could distract himself with a crossword or redirect his attention to his work. If that failed, he could indulge himself in the occasional guilty fantasy. And when the pressure got to be overwhelming, a well-timed if furtive visit to the loos for a wank was always an option. He felt pretty confident in his ability to go on with the status quo indefinitely, waiting until the perfect opportunity presented itself. 

After all, he and Harry shared an office, a workload, and most hours of the days. He had plenty of Harry in his life. There was no need to be _rash_. 

All of these strategies were occasionally tested to breaking point by the relaxed glow Harry sported after a dirty weekend with some random bloke. That tended to highlight the exact nature of the deficit in Draco’s relationship with his partner; the precise shape of the hole in his otherwise satisfactory life. The outlines of that lack were particularly clear this morning, for instance.

Draco stared at the promotional flyer for the dating service that he’d found on Harry’s desk.

> WHOO KNEW? 
> 
> A new owl-based social introduction service for queer wix! The Wizarding world is a small place and many queer wix find themselves hampered in finding the perfect partner. We’ve found that by having formed initial impressions of their potential mates at too young an age, wix often overlook possible matches right underneath their noses! Our unique “owlgorithm” allows subscribers to see each other with new eyes.  
> 
> 
> **Whoo Knew that you would be the one?**  
> 

_Well, shit._ He tried to ignore the sudden discomfort in his stomach as his mind digested the probable cause of this flyer showing up in their office. He had just carefully replaced it on top of a stack of Harry’s unfiled reports when the man himself burst in.

“Hey, did you file that report on the Mulciber investigation like Miranda asked?” Harry said on his way to his desk. 

“I would have, but I got distracted. And you’re a bit late, Potter. Get held up on the way to the Apparition Point?”

“Shut it, you. No, I had a busy morning. I’m here now, so let’s sort through the day’s priorities and get a move on,” he said as he settled his robe on the hook and turned fluidly to seat himself. 

“Hm. Busy morning. Working on a case?” Draco asked, slightly apprehensive of the answer. If Harry was subscribing to personals services, what else might he be up to? He kicked himself for being so ridiculous. This meant nothing. The flyer meant nothing, the ‘busy morning’ meant nothing. Harry had shagged people, had even dated people a number of times over the years of their partnership and it always came to nothing. He smirked as he realized how true it was that Harry was married to his work. And Draco was so much a part of Harry’s work that it was nearly as if— 

“I said—Draco, where are you? Are you even listening to me?”

“Sorry. Just thinking about work. What is it?” Draco straightened in his chair. 

“I was telling you that—well, I remembered what you said.” Harry was leaning over towards Draco on his rolling chair, elbows on knees, an intent light in his eye. Draco’s every nerve pricked up on alert. 

“What I said? When?” 

“When we were talking about, you know. Relationships.” Harry’s gaze skittered around the room before resting again on Draco’s wide eyes. “About how it’s best if you know the person really well first. Like, knowing their flaws as well as their strengths, and that sort of being—”

“Part of the attraction, yes,” Draco replied, a funny feeling rising in his chest. This couldn’t be. Harry wasn’t going to. But if he _did_ … that would spare Draco the trouble of figuring out exactly how to get Harry back in his bed at long last. It seemed too good to be true. His heart was racing and he was—

“So, I was thinking...” Harry drawled meaningfully, leaning even closer to Draco before turning around and snagging something off his desk.

Draco’s heart fell out of the cerulean heights with a thud. The flyer. Of course. 

Harry handed the flyer to Draco with a smug look on his face. “I thought you’d be pleased to know I’m taking your advice. I’m going to stop dating random blokes hoping something will somehow work out. This service is really brilliant, see? I’ll be writing to people first, getting to know them pretty well before meeting them, it’s like you told me—”

Draco didn’t intend to tune Harry out, it was just that he suddenly remembered that Miranda had told him that something needed to be fixed on their last report. “Yeah, that’s fascinating Potter. First time you’ve listened to me, I suppose I should be honored. Back in a mo’.”

He left their office and almost-but-not-quite slammed the door behind him. Once in the hall, he looked around and then stalked to the supply closet, barricading himself in while he regulated his breathing. 

_Stop this,_ he told himself firmly. _Harry is a free agent. If he wants to waste his time with this… experiment, so be it. It’s not like a bloody owl is going to find his true love for him. _ He huffed a breath of unconvincing laughter. 

Draco ran his hands through his hair in exasperation, and then again for purposes of settling the strands that had been dislodged. He straightened his tie, patted his trousers, put on his psychic armor and pulled up his big boy pants. He could do this. It would be fine.

“So anyway,” Harry began as soon as Draco reentered their office. Great, he was determined to give Draco the lowdown on this stupid service no matter what. “The whole thing is done by owls!” 

“Well, yes, Potter, I’d assumed so from the name,” Draco drawled. “Not to mention that they have control over the post.”

“No, I mean—the _owls_ pick the matches! It turns out,” Harry trailed off, locating another brochure on his desk and flipping through it, “that owls—we all know that they’re symbolic of wisdom, right, but they are especially able to see what others cannot, to illuminate—where is it, the whole truth about someone, to see into their souls.” 

“Sounds like superstition to me, Potter,” Draco said, rather hollowly to his own ears.

“Says the wizard,” Harry practically drawled. “Magic itself is a superstition in the Muggle world, you know. Anyway, I think this is pretty interesting. I’m looking forward to getting matched.”

“And what if it matches you with someone you don’t like?” Draco said, trying to instill some shred of doubt about this plan.

“Well, that’s the best part! You get your matches but they’re spelled so you can’t recognize them even if you’ve met them before. It makes you see them in a new light, like—you won’t know about your history with them, you’ll be learning about them as if you had never met. You know how tiny our circle is. What if the perfect person is right in front of you but you’ve already slotted them as a friend or whatever?” 

Draco swallowed hard and got up. “Yes, it’s a fair point. So. Have you,” he broke off, rearranging his quills and taking a moment to gather himself, “have you gotten your matches yet?”

“Not yet, I have to write my profile first. Not sure where to start with that, actually. Want to help?” Harry quirked a smile over to Draco.

“Of course, Potter. Wouldn’t want you attracting the wrong sort, would we?” Draco hoped he sounded supportive and not conniving. His Slytherin subroutine kicked in as he rapidly formulated a plot to thwart this venture in any way he could.

“Well, I’ve got my details and everything filled in...” Harry started, but trailed off as Draco came over to his desk and leaned against his chair, looking over his shoulder at the form. 

“6 foot? More like 5’11”, Potter,” he murmured as he took the quill out of Harry’s hand and made the correction. Harry subconsciously straightened in his chair which had the effect of pressing his shoulder into Draco’s armpit as he reached over him. Draco lingered in that position, allowing himself to revel in Harry’s scent for a moment, and then plucked the form off Harry’s desk and paced while reviewing it. 

“Hm, let’s see—eyes green, check. Hair black, check. Although you left off ‘disastrously unkempt.’” He ignored Harry’s outraged squawk, which was mostly feigned in any event. 

“Orientation, bi, yes, we knew that—” he broke off, wondering if the awkward stillness of Harry’s body was because he’d just obliquely referred to their brief arrangement at Hogwarts after the war. He continued.

“Ethnicity— you marked “Any Other Mixed”— why is there no White/Indian option on this form?”

“There never is, Malfoy. It doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t matter? There’s White/Black Caribbean and White/Asian. Your ancestry matters, Potter.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Well, there’s no tickbox for any mix that doesn’t include white, either. The forms are flawed. Welcome to the wizarding world. Moving on?”

Draco dropped it. “Status, single. Well, is that true, though?” He mused ostentatiously, cutting his eyes over to Potter.

“If you’re implying what I think you’re implying, you can stuff it,” Harry said with an exhausted air. 

“Being married to your job speaks to an admirable level of dedication to public service, Potter, you know I would never criticize, but you’d better be upfront about it. Your new boyfriend needs to know that he’ll see much less of you than I will.” 

Harry looked affronted. “You’re one to talk about dedication, Malfoy! You’re never _not_ here! I’ve caught you asleep at your desk when I come in at least once a week since we were assigned together.”

Draco smiled to himself. Whenever Harry caught him asleep at his desk, he would wake up to find a blanket draped over his shoulders and a cup of coffee placed considerately just out of stretching range. Sometimes there was even a stale scone. Sometimes Draco fell asleep there on purpose. 

“Well, no need to get competitive,” he drawled and resumed his scan of the form. “Relationship type—monogamous. Really, Potter, didn’t we just cover this?” He raised his eyebrow and soldiered on. “Body type—hah! You’ve put fit!” 

“What? You don’t think I’m fit?” Harry stood up and turned around while looking down at his own body. “What are you saying, Malfoy?”

Draco admired the view briefly and said, “No, no, you’re fit enough, I suppose. But one ought to be modest about one’s assets. You don’t want to seem like you have a big head.” 

“Well, then it’s a good thing they didn’t ask about—”

“Don’t say it.” 

Harry smirked at him. “Don’t say what? What should I not say, Malfoy?” 

“You know perfectly well. Pride is a sin, Potter.” It was one of the torments of his life, knowing how well-hung the boy hero had turned out to be. Really, the universe was not handing out favors equitably, in Draco’s opinion. Not to mention that he had nothing but a distant memory of what it had felt like to— _No. No way. Don’t go down that road_ , he chided himself. He let Harry have his little moment of victory and then started in on the form again.

“‘My self-summary: I am just a regular bloke who likes taking long walks in the park, playing pick-up Quidditch, having a pint at the pub, and relaxing at home in front of the telly. I don’t read much but I keep up on current affairs and culture.’ My god, Potter, this isn’t _you._ ” 

Harry looked up from his desk where he’d returned to scribbling on a file while half-listening to Draco read his profile sarcastically. “It’s not, is it? Well, what should it say? I should just let you write it.”

Shit, what was he thinking? Harry’s profile thus far was a disaster, which was how it should be. Draco needed to let well enough alone. He wasn’t helping his case by offering tips for improving it, for Merlin’s sake. 

“Hm. Well, for starters, you need to make yourself sound exciting. Most gay men—oh wait, I’m presuming. _Are_ you looking for women, too?” Draco knew he sounded smug. He knew he shouldn’t but he simply couldn’t help himself. Harry had already marked ‘bi’ and was a card-carrying bisexual, but while Draco knew that he’d slept with women, he also knew it had been years since Harry had been out with any. 

“No, not really. Maybe I should…” he trailed off.

“Yes, it’s best to be clear on what we really want,” Draco said, with a hard look at Harry. Harry looked away. “I’m marking Gay.”

“Okay,” Harry said softly as he turned back to his work. 

“Okay,” Draco echoed. It was to the good to remind Harry where their joint aspirations lay. “Now, self-summary. I am a giant pillock who never knows when to quit, even after the last diehard has thrown in the towel and pissed off. I will constantly put you in fear of my life with my recklessness and you may as well know right now that both my penmanship and my vocabulary leave much to be desired.”

Harry’s lips were turning up at the corners but he paid Draco no mind. Draco’s heart gave a hard thump. When or where was he ever going to find this kind of intimacy with anyone else? He knew all of Harry’s flaws and damn it if he didn’t revel in every one of them. 

“Oh, too mature to rise to the bait, eh? Alright, you’re no fun. How about this: I’m a hardworking, resourceful bloke who puts his friends first. I like excitement, danger, Quidditch and treacle tart. What I’m looking for:” Draco paused a moment, to wrestle his angst back into the recesses of his heart. Evidently what Harry was looking for was not… no, it didn’t bear putting into words.

“‘What I’m looking for:’ help me out, Potter. It’s not like I know what you’re after.”

“You do so; we’ve talked about this,” Harry peered at Draco over his glasses and Draco schooled his countenance and his cock to indifference. The over-the-glasses look was quite comely on Harry, not that the prat knew it. 

“Right. Of course. What I’m looking for: someone sweet and kind who likes puppies and kittens and will make me feel safe and we’ll adopt lots of babies and gaze beatifically into each others’ eyes in the light of the eternal sunset. That about right?”

“Fuck you, arsehole. Wanting someone kind doesn’t mean I’m a sap. And I’m not sure about the babies, I’ve told you that. Maybe only two, or one. Maybe none, I don’t know.”

“Oh shove off, Potter. We both know you’re going to raise kids.” This was a sticking point in Draco’s longstanding fantasy about finding everlasting bliss (of both the spiritual and physical variety) with Harry. He wasn’t sure he was cut out to be a parent. He could see Harry with kids quite clearly, and it was a lovely image. But he couldn’t yet see himself there. Too much baggage from his own childhood, he reckoned.

“Well, not everyone wants kids and maybe it’s too soon to bring it into the discussion. Anyway. You want to know what I’m looking for?”

“Hey, it’s not me, I’m just reading off the form,” Draco said, kicking himself as the words left his mouth. 

“Well,” Harry said thoughtfully, “I’m looking for someone who enjoys the same things I do, who shares my values and goals, and who isn’t afraid to show their feelings.”

“Boring,” Draco drawled, but his heart wasn’t in it. He and Potter didn’t like the same things. Potter liked plebian food and stupid Muggle cinema and had no dress sense, whereas Draco had impeccable taste in comestibles, film and design. They didn’t value the same things. Draco valued etiquette and knowing when to wield the knife and when to just display it, and his goals included lording over everyone someday, whereas Harry valued plain speaking, open dealing and hated the idea of using his power over others. And if there was a person on earth who was afraid to show his feelings, well. That person’s name was Draco Malfoy. 

But Potter was wrong, anyway. Draco refused to go down this road right now, but he was determined to challenge Harry’s asinine notion that people had to be similar to be a good match.

“Is that it? Can I submit it?”

Draco gripped the form tighter. He didn’t want to hand it over; he didn’t want Harry to submit it. He looked it over carefully. “No! Not yet. You have to choose your profile name. May I suggest Chosen Prat?”

Harry’s mouth made an exasperated line. “While potentially accurate, that gives my identity away, and the whole point of the service is anonymity until you meet in person. How about— hm.” Harry’s eyes got that unfocused look they sometimes had when he was trying to think. Draco seemed to recall that his eyes wore the same glazed expression when… whoops, Harry was still talking. “I don’t know. This is harder than I thought.”

“Let me think. Seekingthe1? Gryffindork? Tea&treacle?”

“How about Whiskeytart?”

“That’s actually not bad, Potter. You do enjoy whiskey and it preserves the treacle tart reference, plus it’s a wee bit sexy.” He slanted his gaze over to Potter with sly smile. Of course, the name rather made him sound like a slutty drunk, which as Draco well knew he sadly wasn’t. All the better to set false expectations. He wrote the profile name on the form. 

The tops of Harry’s cheeks colored slightly and he looked down before reaching his hand out. “Okay, that’s settled. Hand it over, I’m going to summon the owl.” 

Their fingertips brushed as Draco handed the form to Harry, and Draco had to suppress the shiver that wanted to wend its way through his nervous system, sparking up an insistent awareness of Harry’s physical form not two feet away. Sometimes having a crush on one’s officemate was sheerly unpleasant. 

Harry took the form and placed it on his desk, tapping it with his wand three times. After a moment, with a whoosh and a hooweet, a tawny owl sailed through their door and landed on Draco’s shoulder. 

“Hey! Get off me! You’ve got the wrong wizard!”

The owl ignored him and began nipping at his fingers. Harry laughed and snapped his fingers to get the owl’s attention. It was a lovely bird, really, but its claws were sharp and digging relentlessly into Draco’s trapezius. The owl fluffed his golden feathers and delivered one last nibble to Draco’s ear, then took off to land on the file cabinet next to Harry’s desk. It looked imperiously down at the form, waiting with its leg out.

Harry rolled the form up and tied it to the owl’s leg, then offered it a treat from his drawer. The owl flitted a look between the two men in the office and then quite evidently decided to knock the treat out of Harry’s hand judgmentally. “Hey! That’s rude,” Harry exclaimed, chuckling but looking a trifle offended.

“Don’t worry, Howlett, I’ve got better treats than him. Here, have a Micepop!” Draco tossed the treat into the air and the owl, now christened Howlett, swooped down and caught it, then disappeared out the door, bearing the form to the mysterious enterprise that would ostensibly find Harry his true love.

\\\\\\\\\/////

At home, Draco poured himself a whiskey, thinking about the profile name Harry had chosen. Which of course turned his thoughts once again to his predicament.

It wasn’t going to be enough to thwart Harry’s attempts to find love through owlgorithm. That Potter had signed up for this service was not the issue, as Draco was forcing himself to realize. The issue was that Harry was ready for a relationship and he was going to find himself one, through the asinine owl personals or otherwise. The issue was that Draco had been wallowing in false comfort, pretending to himself that he had all the time in the world—to change Harry’s mind about love, about himself. About what was possible between them. But he hadn’t taken any action. It had been years.

Draco finished his drink and laid down on the tufted sofa. He admitted to himself that he had become too accustomed to the dynamic they had going now. At the outset of their unlikely partnership, things between them had been strained. They hadn’t interacted much in the intervening years since the so-called Eighth Year at Hogwarts and the brief arrangement that had formed at school that spring. Draco tried not to think about it directly too much. He preferred to let the knowledge that Harry had once found him irresistible flutter around the edges of his mind, gently salving his ego, sating his urge to act. 

Draco closed his eyes and let his hand drift down towards his crotch as he indulged in a rare bit of recollection.

\\\\\\\\\/////

Harry sat by his lonesome at one of the tables near the window in the library. “So, where are the other two thirds of the Golden Trio?” Draco asked as he seated himself at the table with a stack of books, feeling pretty good about showing concern for Potter, and on top of that, failing to insult his terrible choice in friends.

“Don’t call them that, Malfoy. They have names.” Potter looked pissed off.

“Sorry for caring, Potter. I just noticed that I don’t see you with them much anymore.”

“Yeah, duh, Malfoy. That would be why we’re studying together,” Harry scowled as he gestured between the two of them. “They’re too busy…” he broke off, his face turning an amazing shade of puce. 

“Too busy doing what?” Malfoy asked, all false innocence. 

“You know what.” Harry refused to meet Draco’s wide eyes.

“I’m afraid I don’t —you’ll have to enlighten me, Potter.”

“Fucking.”

“Erm, do you mean fucking hell, or fucking shut up— you seem to have failed to complete your sentence.”

“Fucking,” Potter repeated, making eye contact with Draco. An electric shock jolted him as their eyes met, that word reverberating through his brain. “That’s what they’re doing, and you know it.”

Draco lowered his gaze after what seemed like an eternity, speechless. Yes, he did know exactly what Granger and the Weasel were up to and he had deliberately goaded Harry into telling him. He hadn’t known how that word would make him feel, coming from Potter’s lips. His heart was racing and he stared at his notes. He hoped he looked disinterested rather than shocked.

“They were just making out for ages and that was disgusting but it was alright, and then a month ago, I guess Ron got up the courage to, you know…”

“Enough, Potter. I get it.” Draco’s voice was tight in his throat.

“Hey, you’re the one who asked.” He risked a glance up at Potter’s face—evidently his own disgust had tempered the other boy’s embarrassment. His eyes were alight with dawning mischief. “I didn’t know you were such a prude, Malfoy. Don’t ask unless you can handle the truth.”

“I can handle the truth, Potter, I simply don’t want to contemplate the particulars of those two having sex,” he said with attempted archness.

“Oh, so it’s just those two, then? You could handle talking about other people having sex? Like… who, for instance?” Potter looked maliciously gleeful. 

“Given my predilections, I would assume you’d know that the traditional mode vis a vis the opposite sex does nothing for me.” He gave Potter a second to work through that, and then heard the penny drop.

“You mean, you’re—” a soft voice replied.

Without looking up, because he just couldn’t, he replied simply, “Yes.”

There was silence, and that could be good and that could be bad. Draco maintained both possibilities in his head at once, trying to determine which outcome would be better overall.

“Me too.”

Of course, the one possibility he hadn’t foreseen. Would Potter never conform to type? Draco shook his head in exasperation. 

“What do you mean, ‘me too’? Are you seriously coming out? To _me_? Of all people?”

“Well, I’m not gay, if that’s what you mean.”

“Then what the _hell_ does ‘me too’ mean in this context?”

“Just, me too, I like … nontraditional things, too. I think I like blokes and birds.” He stopped and looked a bit sheepish at spelling it out. “I—I haven’t tried much but…”

“The word is bisexual. You think you like both. But you don’t know for sure. God, Potter, you can’t just go around blurting these things out! There are consequences...” Draco forced himself to shut up. He looked wildly around the library but it was late and they were the only ones there. A wicked, a truly wicked idea occurred to him and he was in just the right frame of mind to try it; pissed off and turned on. 

“You have to know there are consequences to coming out,” he began again. “You’d better be sure before you commit yourself, people will have definite opinions about the Chosen One Seeking for both teams.” He paused to assess Potter’s reaction. He looked receptive. “I might be able to help you there.”

“H-help? Help how?” Harry swallowed and Draco knew he was on the right track.

“Help you with the blokes side of the equation. You know, to get some empirical evidence.” He took a deep breath. And winked. 

The reaction he got was worth the risk. Harry blushed from his throat up and nodded.

And that’s how that started. Too bad about how it ended.

\\\\\\\\\/////

Draco knew there had to be some magic combination of words that would bring Harry back to him. He just needed to find them. Problematically, every time Draco tried to steer the conversation in a direction that might illuminate how well they complimented each other, Harry pushed back with his hackneyed and misguided notions of the romantic ideal.

Harry had been waylaid by Miranda and forced to endure a harangue about inadequate adherence to reporting protocol. So, while he waited for his partner to make it back the office, Draco had been indulging in a simple fantasy in which he played with Harry’s foreskin and just the very tip of his penis for a shockingly long time. His right hand pressed idly against his half-erection as, in his mind, he finally slid the foreskin over the glans and put the crown of Harry’s cock in his mouth. He could almost taste it; just the faintest echo of a memory shadowed his tongue. 

He started in surprise when Harry entered, scooting himself further under his desk to conceal his halfie. Harry, no surprise, starting whinging on about protocol. Draco let the noise wash over him and relaxed into the sound of Harry’s voice as he ranted. He feigned interest in the file he had open on his desk while continuing with his fantasy. It gave him a little thrill to do this with Harry in the room, especially as Harry was now pacing. Every time he walked close to Draco, he caught a whiff of his body odor and cologne—or was it deodorant? No matter, whatever it was, it was just—hmmm. Delicious. 

Now he was taking more of the shaft in his mouth, and Harry’s hands were twining in Draco’s hair and pulling just the slightest bit. Draco was looking up at Harry and could see the desire written all over his face, desire and lust and satisfaction and hunger. 

Just at that moment, when it was getting really good, a rush of displaced air and a graze of wing feathers across his cheek startled him out of his chair. 

“Bollocks!” he cried, looking around for the golden-feathered fiend which was circumnavigating the room as though it didn’t know perfectly well which wizard had signed up for its stupid service. “He’s over there!” 

Harry held out his arm and the owl landed on it, staring balefully at Draco all the while. 

_What is up with that bird_? Draco thought to himself as he watched Harry disengage the little scroll from the menace’s leg. _Fuck._

“Oh look! It’s a message. From a lovesick _swain_ hoping to win the heart of Harry Potter —or should I say WhiskeyTart?” Draco, whenever unsettled, took refuge in ridicule and sarcasm. It was a coward’s way out, but at least it was a way out. 

“Yeah, it’s my first message! Want to see what he says?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Sure, why not,” he deadpanned. “Let’s get a gander at him while we’re at it.” 

Harry said, “Nice birds pun,” as he dismissed the owl. Before leaving, the owl hopped over to Draco’s desk and looked expectantly at him. 

“Oh, you just love me for my Micepops. Well, here you go.” He fished one out of the drawer and chucked it over, where it was snapped up precipitously. “Mind your feathers next time.” The owl didn’t seem inclined to say farewell, however. Draco’s attention was drawn by Harry’s muttering.

“It’s not —oh well,” he caught as Harry trailed off.

“It’s not what?”

“It’s not a message, it’s my list of matches. Here, have a look.” Harry thrust the parchment at him and he reached out to take it, at which point the prat pulled it away again. “I forgot, the matches are charmed so subscribers won’t recognize the people in the profiles, but since you’re not signed up, I don’t think it will work on you. Here,” he said while fiddling with a strip of paper and some paperclips, “I’ll cover up the pictures so you can look without spoiling it for me.’

 _Oh, I’m going to spoil it for you, alright_ , Draco thought smugly to himself, though he kept the expression off his face. He reached out again and took the matches, frowning at them.

“What a load of twaddle, Potter,” he said softly as he perused the brief profiles. Most of these gits were obviously trying too hard. Who actually came out and said they liked _fine dining_? Or were looking for their _soulmate_? Draco gagged and read out loud, “‘I’m looking for someone to hold me and stroke my hair, to make me feel like the most important person in their world.’ You sound like you have boundary issues, mate,” he said to the parchment. “These matches seem pretty piss-poor, Potter.”

Harry, irritatingly enough, didn’t seem stung by Draco’s spot-on skewering. He just smiled softly and said, “We’ll see,” turning back to fill in a routine suspect tracking report.

As Draco was surreptitiously lifting the bottom edge of the strip of paper obscuring the pictures, he heard a soft “toowit-toowoo” and then felt the owl alight on his shoulder. It pecked his ear and then, after a fleeting glance towards where Harry sat with his head turned away, lifted up the scrap of paper so Draco could see the faces of Harry’s would-be suitors. 

“I’d like my matches back at some point. If they’re so compelling, maybe you should sign up for the service yourself.” 

“Just a moment, Potter. Someone must save you from yourself. You don’t want to go off half-cocked.” _Hm. Terry, that makes a certain kind of sense. Baddock? Surely you jest. Wood? Oh fuck, that’s no good. Wait a tick, is that a Weasley in there? That’s practically incest!_ The scrap fluttered down just as Harry looked up and over. The owl took off with a painful clutching push against Draco’s tender flesh. 

Draco just had time to glimpse a few more saccharine phrases on the matches list before Harry rose and swiped it out of his hands. “These matches are rubbish, you know. You should spare yourself the disappointment.”

“You’re just envious that I’m going to have people wooing me with flowery phrases and purple prose, and you aren’t.” Harry’s face was alight with fake malice, which as far as Draco was concerned was a good look for him. Malice brought out the green of his eyes and the sharpness of his high cheekbones. “I’m going to have men falling at my feet to win me over and you won’t. Or I guess you could always sign up—”

Draco burst out laughing. “Can you imagine what would happen if I signed up for the service and some poor bloke made arrangements to meet? Only to find out they were going on a date with Draco Malfoy of Malfoy Manor, ex-Death Eater and heir of Azkaban convict Lucius Malfoy? That would be… actually, it would almost be worth it to see the look on their face...” 

Draco was laughing uncontrollably and didn’t immediately notice that Harry wasn’t laughing with him. As his fit died down, he registered that Harry had not joined in. “What?” 

“I just don’t think it’s funny, is all.” Harry turned away and rummaged through one of his junk drawers. 

Draco sighed. Attempting to make light of the fact that Harry wanted him to sign up for a fucking dating service—when he’d much rather just be dating the person two feet away from him —had taken the wind out of his sails. He watched as Harry shoved the drawer closed then stalked off in the direction of the tea cart. Draco leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes and let his mind drift back to earlier, better times.

\\\\\\\\\/////

They abandoned their books at the table, telling each other they would be back down in the library first thing in the morning anyway and no one would mind. Draco led the way to the second floor where he happened to know there was a disused spellwork practice space, cobwebby and dilapidated but good enough for his purposes. Harry followed close behind, and Draco could hear his breathing speed up when the door shut behind them.

“So,” started Harry, but he apparently didn’t have anything else to say. Draco stared at him, about a million fantasies of bringing Potter to his knees rifling through his mind. He was determined to play the svengali here—he had kissed boys before, he’d even given a few hand jobs. Draco knew what the hell he was doing here. Finally, he had bested Potter at something. This was a moment to revel in and he intended to play it to the hilt. 

Potter had gone further into the room, turning around and leaning uncertainly against a dusty desk. Draco stalked seductively over to him, loosening his tie and collar, undoing the top buttons on his robe. The other boy’s hands went to his collar as if to copy Draco’s actions, but stilled as Draco drew close. Draco made a split-second decision to Vanish their robes. That taken care of, he stepped almost between Potter’s feet, their legs brushing against each other and their chests nearly touching. He wanted to be suave, he wanted to be assured. He felt neither of those things. 

Potter looked like a deer in the moonlight, wary and as though he might flee at any moment. Draco lifted one hand to his face to pin him there, but it just hovered with the lightest pressure, barely grazing the skin. The heat of Potter radiated into his hand. Their eyes met and instead of boring into Potter’s green gaze with smouldering intensity the way he’d envisioned, Draco found his eyelids fluttering shut. 

He leaned in—at this distance, Potter’s scent invaded his senses, warm and musky and _right_. Tilting his head a fraction, Draco brushed his lips across Harry’s. For a first kiss, it was world-ending. His mind exploded into a thousand suns of revelation with just that contact, his stomach aflutter with butterflies trailing sparks of joy along his nerves. He pulled away, eyes open with shock, to see a similar expression on Potter’s face. 

Then Potter lunged in and pressed his lips against Draco’s and it happened all over again, but worse; more intense, uncontrollable. Draco felt like he was drowning. He backed up and dropped his gaze to Potter’s crotch. There was a noticeable bulge in his trousers and Draco instantly decided to prioritize that over further soul-wrenching kisses. 

He put his hand over it and Potter gasped while his hips bucked forward. Potter’s hands came up to clutch at Draco’s sides as Draco groped the hard length trapped by clothing. “C’mere,” he muttered, dragging Potter down to his knees and working at his buckle. “I’m gonna touch you, okay?” he said as he got the trousers undone, heart racing and mouth watering. Out of his peripheral vision, he thought Potter nodded but all his attention was focused on the stiff presence of the cock underneath soft cotton pants. 

It was thicker than his own, warm and rigid, twitching up into his palm. He rubbed it and Potter whimpered, a needy sound that made his own cock jump. He kept rubbing, glancing up to see Potter’s head lolling on his neck, mouth open with shocked pleasure. The pants needed to go. Draco pulled down impatiently on the waistband and they slid down, catching on the head of Potter’s prick and causing it to bounce. 

Draco grabbed the shaft and began wanking it roughly, watching Potter’s reaction, which was intriguing. His eyes fluttered shut and he gasped, one hand coming around to rest on Draco’s where he held Potter’s cock. Draco stared at the head, watching a slick drop of precome form in the slit and wanting so much to taste it but afraid to ratchet up the intensity of this experience any further. He focused on the feel of the smooth skin sliding over the unyielding flesh beneath, so similar yet so very different from his own—different color, different scent, different size— Merlin, Potter was _hung._ Normally he’d be jealous but it was impossible to dredge up that feeling while he had the gorgeous thing in his hand. 

He shifted on his knees, coming around to Potter’s side so the angle was less awkward. Now he could twist his hand at the top and swipe his thumb over the glans, just the way he himself liked it. Potter’s reaction to this was delicious—a poorly stifled moan that went straight to Draco’s already hard prick. He thrust his other hand in his lap and ground against it, panting. Potter’s temples were beading with sweat as Draco kept fisting him, speeding up and watching the response. 

His head was so close to Potter’s, and despite his fear of the intensity of that first kiss, he couldn’t help leaning in and capturing the other’s boy open mouth with his own. Their tongues slid together as Draco kept working Potter’s dick, and he felt so lightheaded he thought he might faint. Lust surged up inside him and he came, bucking into his own hand and his other throttling Potter’s shaft. He felt come splatter his fist and opened his eyes to Harry’s green gaze. They were both panting and a little sweaty —Draco lifted his hand, compelled to touch Potter’s face, to wipe a drop of perspiration off his cheekbone, but instead ran it through his own hair. 

“Well, that was...” Draco trailed off, not wanting to sound too enthusiastic until he knew what Potter’s opinion of the whole thing was. Did he regret it? Was he disappointed? It didn’t seem likely, but one never knew. Maybe it had just been the novelty of another hand on his prick. Maybe Draco shouldn’t have kissed him. Maybe—

“Brilliant. It was bloody brilliant,” Potter said, doing up his flies and shooting a glance over at Draco through his lashes. Fuck, but he was fit. 

Draco smiled. “Then we’ll have to do it again sometime,” he said. 

“Sure thing, Malfoy,” Potter replied, returning his smile with a grin.

\\\\\\\\\/////

Draco sighed. Remembering those moments always left him in a strange twilight state of melancholy arousal. He was hard yet incapable of wanking, a ridiculous but apt metaphor for his current state regarding Harry. Potter. Always Potter, never Harry. He sighed again and reached for his robe. Time to head home.

The next morning brought its own tribulations. Hary was in the office unrolling a sheaf of parchment, and the tawny owl he’d named Howlett was pacing on Draco’s desk, making a mess of his stacks. “Off!” he commanded, and the bird obeyed, only to come to painful rest on his forearm. “Look, if you want a treat, you’ll have to behave better than that,” Draco said testily to the feathered menace. The owl reached up to nip at his shoulder and he sighed in exasperation as he watched Potter read what could only be his first love note.

Draco watched avidly as Potter’s expression went from hopeful to bemused to shut down. He snatched the parchment away from Harry and said, “What have we here?” 

Harry rolled his eyes. “Malfoy, the owl is right here. You know what it is.” But he didn’t try to stop Draco from reading it.

Draco raised one eyebrow at him and directed his attention to the missive. Hm. “‘ _From MinistryMan —Dear Whiskeytart_ —’ I think I rather like that name for you, mind if I call you ‘Tart’ for short?” Harry snorted. He resumed. 

_“‘I think we would make an excellent match. To judge based on your profile, you are a principled, ambitious young man. I am the same.’_ Merlin, this bloke sounds like a barrel of laughs. I can only imagine his pillow talk: ‘Tell me about your deepest ambitions and your secret principles, darling,’ Draco said in a monotone, then chuckled and continued reading the note. _“‘My goals include attaining elected public office by the age of 45, an eminently feasible goal I might add. I would need a spouse of significant standing and you strike me as having a lot to offer in that regard.’”_ Draco broke off to laugh again. “If he only knew— Potter, he thinks you’d make an excellent politician’s wife! Please tell me you’re not going to date this one!” It had to be the Weasley, the one with the stick up his arse. At least it wasn’t the dragon-tamer, thank Merlin. With those biceps and those tattoos and that air of draconic invulnerability, he would have been more competition than Draco felt was fair.

Harry shook his head, swiping the parchment back from Draco in an ill-humor. “No, I’m not. I have a hard time believing the service thought this prat was a match for me. Maybe it’s not such a good idea, after all.” Draco felt a weight lift off his shoulders but simultaneously felt bad for Harry, all hopes of finding love-via-owl dashed.

Which was absurd. If Harry really wanted a boyfriend, he didn’t have to go through these shenanigans. He could just walk out onto any public thoroughfare and stick out his thumb— someone would give him a ride. Likely hundreds of someones. But Harry had wanted to follow his advice and get to know someone first. Apparently he’d wanted to follow that advice so much that he was now dejected that his scheme hadn’t worked out. 

“Hey, relax. They can’t all be that bad. The next one will likely be the love of your life,” Draco said, hating each word as it left his mouth. He just couldn’t stand seeing Harry disappointed, particularly not when evidently the whole misadventure had been part and parcel of listening to Draco’s advice for once. Albeit not at all in the way he’d wanted.

“Yeah, I bet it will,” Harry said. “I’m going to go take care of something. See you tomorrow.”

The daft owl returned to Draco’s desk and began hunting around for something. It was getting perilously close to his favorite set of quills and who knew what damage that beak could do to the delicate calamus? Draco rummaged for a ShrewChew in the drawer to distract the bird. Howlett received his tribute and took off, scattering papers in his wake. Draco sighed and began to straighten them, thinking about heading home to his lonely flat. He thought he might just stay at the office and get a little bit more work done. Mulciber and his crew were getting too uppity, it might be time to get some more intel on them.

 

\\\\\\\\\/////

 

Draco was barely awake, propped up in his chair when Harry came into the office, but he came to full alertness instantly on registering what Harry was wearing.

“You interviewed Morgenstern?” Draco asked, based on the Muggle shorts and tank top Harry sported. Harry only dressed in Muggle clothes when he was going undercover, and he must have gone to that community center to see if the contact was finally available to chat about the suspicious activity at the center and find out if it could be tied to the case.

“Yeah, how did you know?” Harry half-turned, allowing Draco to see the lines of his torso caressed by the thin cotton fabric, and just a peek of smooth, brown flank through the large arm hole of the tank top. 

Draco took it with a nod and gestured exasperatedly at his costume. “Well, you’re fucking h— it must be fucking hot out there,” he managed. He tried to keep his eyes off Harry’s thighs, which were outlined all too clearly in those shorts.

“Yeah, it’s fucking hot out there in the Muggle world,” Harry chuckled. “The same fucking hot it is in the Wizarding world.” He leaned forward to hand Draco the iced quad-shot Americano he was holding, wafting the scent of his sun-warmed skin towards Draco’s all-too-receptive nose. 

“I wouldn’t know, Potter,” Draco sneered. “I use cooling charms on my robes in the summer, like an actual wizard.” He was going to have to use some cooling charms in here as well, the heat must have somehow snuck indoors. The iced Americano was good but he still felt too warm under the collar.

It hadn’t been a particularly long time since Draco had indulged himself, but constant sharing of quarters with the object of his fantasies made his libido flare up like nobody’s business on the best of days. Not to mention the enticement that Harry currently constituted whilst displaying his naked shoulders and calf muscles. A slight sheen of sweat glistened on the back of his neck, and Draco kept surreptitiously checking out the swell of his arse in the clinging athletic shorts.

He felt like his desire was a separate being, growing inside him like a monster ravening with need that would be unleashed on the first person to simply brush up against him. It would be too easy to set off this powder keg. He ought to take care of it before he ended up taking Harry over his desk. 

Oh god, that image just did terrible things to him. He saw with perfect clarity how Harry would look stretched over his cluttered desktop, Draco’s right hand holding him down by the base of his neck and his left hand dealing with Harry’s shorts and pants. He needed to get to the loo to deal with his raging erection immediately. This was not the type of situation he wanted to involve Potter in— he was so aroused that he might make a move he would instantly regret. 

Draco poked his head out the door to make sure the coast was clear—it was. He stalked down the hall, erection crushed up against the seam of his trousers. Flinging open the door to the loo, he briefly surveilled the room to ensure it was empty. Seemed to be. He closed a stall door behind him and dropped trou with the kind of relief normally associated with getting to the toilet just in time not to wet oneself. 

Dick in hand at last, he felt some of the tension drain out of him. God damn it, Harry did things to his nerves. His nerves, his neurons, his senses, his cock—his whole being helplessly sensitized to every molecule of Harry’s body. So unfair. His hand would make everything better. He let his head fall back and mouth gape with the sensation of friction, finally, on his long-suffering hard on. 

Harry was flat on his stomach, arse in the air, his eyes closed in blissful anticipation of Draco’s cock. Draco’s fingers were buried deep inside his beloved antagonist, his partner, his fate—crooked down and stroking him into submission. Draco moaned at the thought, the circle of his fingers flying over his cock, catching on the head and back down, over and over and over. His other hand cradled his balls, squeezing and rolling them. Harry pressed back on Draco’s fingers—no—on Draco’s cock, groaning desperately. It was too much, too fucking beautiful, the culmination of all Draco’s fondest wishes; the pornographic scene a proxy for total acceptance of his true self, flaws and all. Come splashed his hand and the stall door as Draco whined in the back of his throat. 

Fuck that was amaz—hold up, what was that sound? A door clanked open and shut, footsteps going from a stall to the sink. Shit, someone had entered the loo while he was wanking! He held his breath and watched a fat drop of come slide down the metal door. Whoever had been at the sink washed their hands and left. Draco buttoned himself and wandlessly cleaned up his mess. He wasn’t too fussed about having been possibly overheard —as long as it hadn’t been Potter. 

“So, been a long day?” Harry inquired as Draco sloped into their office, his expression suspiciously innocent. “Needed to blow off some steam?” Ah, fuck—there it was, the sly upturn at the corner of his full lips. 

“I, uh—there was a—I just,” Draco cut off his inept stammering. His damned cheeks flushed and he focused on a report that had been laid on his desk by one of the admins earlier that morning. “It’s been awhile, I guess.” 

“No one you like at the clubs, huh?” Harry inquired mildly, but Draco knew what he really meant. He viewed Draco’s resorting to anonymous sex to be a laughable but pitiable indulgence. Or so Draco assumed. They’d never really talked about it, but based on Harry’s insistence on lurve and romance or whatever bullshit he was always on about, he thought he was probably about right. 

“I haven’t been going lately,” he confessed. He was wary of admitting to this because he worried that the reason was written all over his face. “Not really finding anything I’m interested in, I suppose.” 

“Been with everyone already?” Harry’s tone was neutral but Draco could still hear judgment in it. 

“So, Potter. You’ve joined this service because you want to meet someone to have a, what’s it called? Oh yes, a _relationship_ with. But what kind of relationship? What’s it going to do for you?”

Harry looked at him, an enigmatic expression on his face. “What do you mean? I want to date someone.”

“Yes, obviously. But date for what purpose?” 

“For the purpose of, I don’t know, being with someone? Falling in love?” Harry was now looking at him intently but quizzically, one eyebrow raised. His tone was less neutral.

“And who do you think you might be able to fall in love with? Which one of your matches?”

Harry turned to fully face him, arms crossed over his broad chest. “What’s with the third degree, Malfoy? I know we haven’t had a custodial interrogation in a while, but you don’t need to keep your skills sharp on me.”

“I’m just curious, Potter.” Draco wasn’t just curious. Draco was pissed.

“Well, it’s not like we haven’t covered this before. I want someone to share my life with.”

“Someone to brush your teeth with, someone to make tea with, someone to sit in front of the fire with and fall asleep with— sounds thrilling.” 

“Fuck you, I know you’re a loner, but some people want company.”

“Merlin, you sound like an old maid. Some people want more than _company_.”

Harry blushed and turned away. “I want that, too.”

“I wasn’t talking about sex, Potter,” Draco said. For Merlin’s sake, he had to disabuse Harry of this notion that all he was after was anonymous fucking.

“No?” The doubt in his voice was poisonous.

“No. Some people want someone to complement them.” 

Harry barked out a laugh as he turned away. “Oh my god, I knew you were a narcissist but—”

“Not that kind of complement,” Draco said exasperatedly. “Complement like— go together. Make complete. People with different strengths and weaknesses can bring out the best in each other. Like a puzzle fitting together.”

“I have a hard enough time figuring myself out, I don’t want to have to work on a puzzle.”

“No, they—look, it’s like—you’re part of a picture but you don’t know what the picture is until you see the other half. If you pair up with someone who’s just like you, the picture is just a pattern—here’s you and here’s your twin. Repeat, repeat, repeat. Dull. You can’t learn anything from that, you can’t be inspired by that. But when you find someone who is a bit of a mystery, and you take the time to fit them in, the picture you make together is—”

“I see what you’re saying,” Harry’s eyes looked unfocused for a moment, then he straightened and turned to face Draco full on again. “But some of us are tired of waiting around for that magical person to come complete us.” He stared intently in Draco’s eyes, a challenge in their depths.

“And some of us refuse to compromise.” He tried not to say it like a gauntlet thrown down, but he failed.

Harry flinched. “I just wish you’d stop needling me about this. Can’t you just accept that I might go about things differently?”

Draco subsided into his chair. “Whatever you like, Potter. It’s your life.”

\\\\\\\\\/////

Where had it all gone wrong? For a brief, glowing moment in time, Draco had had Harry right where he wanted him. He allowed himself another tortured trip down memory lane, because god only knew he wasn’t going to be able to stop thinking about Harry tonight, not after that conversation in the office. Draco sprawled in his chair and summoned Minky for a whiskey, neat.

Sipping his drink and propping his feet on the leather tufted footstool, he settled himself into recollection again. 

In the weeks after their first encounter, Draco had managed to get Potter on his own a few more times—fewer than he would have liked, but it seemed like his friends had gotten over the first flush of fucking and were all wrapped up in Potter once again. However, in the time they had spent together Potter had returned the handjob in spades. They had rutted up against each other in hallways and closets and disused rooms of several sorts, but that was as far as they’d gone. Draco wanted desperately to get Potter down in the dungeons, on a bed. His stomach flipped over as he allowed himself to picture the kinds of intimacies into which he wanted to lead the other boy. 

Potter strolled up to him where he leaned against the tapestry of the White Knight and his shambling horse. “I was thinking,” he began. 

“Never a good idea, Potter,” Draco said, to cover his nervousness. He was planning to take things to the next level tonight, but reviving their antagonistic dynamic might not be the best way to go about it. 

Potter just laughed. “I know, but—follow me,” he said, and Draco did, without asking where or why. 

After a few minutes it seemed likely that he was being led to the Gryffindor Tower, but he didn’t openly question it. He was curious to see what Potter was up to. As they were getting close, Potter pulled them into an alcove and wrestled a length of strange fabric out of his pocket. Draco’s jaw dropped. It was an invisibility cloak. 

“I can’t believe you, Potter! Of all the—” Draco broke off as Potter put his hand over his mouth. 

“Hush, I know, it’s unfair, blah blah blah, Malfoy. This will get us past the common room. Neville and Ron are out with their girlfriends tonight. I don’t expect them back for hours.”

Draco’s heart beat wildly in his chest. He allowed Potter to settle the cloak over the both of them. He was so distracted by the other boy’s proximity and the intimacy of being invited to his room that he neglected to note anything else about the legendary cloak of invisibility.

With a great deal of awkward shuffling, they got past the portrait and through the mostly-empty common room. Draco failed to observe anything about the room, focused as he was on the back of Potter’s neck, the fine black hairs dusting the perfect smooth brown skin. He wanted to lick them. 

Once they were through the door of Potter’s dorm room, Potter slid the cloak off of them, letting it pool by their feet. They looked at each other for a moment and Draco watched the grin spread over Potter’s face as an answering smile took over his own. Excitement leapt in his groin and his cock twitched. Something fantastic was about to happen.

Stepping over the cloak—Draco spared a moment to despair of the casual treatment of a priceless magical artefact—Potter led him to a bed and sat down on it, pulling Draco to sit beside him. Instead Draco dropped to his knees in front of him, hands braced on either side of Potter’s thighs. He made eye contact, grey meeting green, feeling a flush all down his chest and skating across his cheeks but he didn’t care, because he saw the exact moment when Potter realized what was about to go down. Or rather, who was about to go down. 

Potter’s eyes fluttered shut for a second as he clearly absorbed that a blow job was imminent. Draco’s mouth watered and he just couldn’t hold back any more. His hands urged Potter up and he stripped him of his jeans and pants. 

That impressive prick hung, hot and heavy, poised right in front of Draco’s mouth. He felt his own harden further at the sight: dusky, thick, nested in a springy pile of black curls that looked coarse but were in fact the softest thing he’d ever felt. He pushed the tips of his fingers into the hair and shivered as the cock twitched in response. Harry shifted and gasped above him, and Draco pressed him back down on the bed before he toppled over. 

He wedged himself between Harry’s knees and took a deep breath. Draco had not done this before—here he reached the limits of his experience. Both of them were in uncharted waters now. Draco looked up and saw Harry looking right back at him. He felt a smile tugging his lips. He could do this. He wanted to do this. Harry wanted him to do this. 

Keeping eye contact proved difficult as he felt suddenly shy, but he persevered and held Harry’s gaze while touching his tongue to the slit of Harry’s cock. Harry’s mouth opened on a tender little “oh” that made Draco want to surge up and claim it, but he kept his mouth where it was and took the head in. He had to look down while he did so but he could hear the helpless noises Harry was making, incredible little moaning sounds that flooded him with desire. 

His tongue traced the ridge of the glans and Harry’s hips bucked up, thrusting him an inch or so further into Draco’s mouth. The urgency of this reaction made Draco’s blood boil and he lost all pretence towards mimicking art or skill as he tried to stuff the whole huge thing in his mouth, to hear what sounds Harry would make then. He could only take it about halfway in before his gag reflex made his limits known, but Harry was not complaining—he was whining and panting and spastically clutching at Draco’s hair. This was possibly the most satisfying thing Draco had ever expended effort on. Spurred on by success, he pushed past his reflex and shoved down harder on Harry’s hard length, ignoring the discomfort. 

Harry’s response to this was a garbled cry that made all of their previous fighting seem like the foreplay it obviously had been. This was what they were supposed to have been doing. _This_ was the way to get under Harry’s skin. Draco let Harry fuck his mouth for a minute until his throat ached too much to go on, and he pulled off to pump Harry’s shaft with his fist as he sucked for dear life on the head. Harry’s thighs were shaking and Draco knew how close he must be, reveling in the knowledge that it was him taking Harry apart like this, him making the Chosen One lose control. Thick spurts of come filled his mouth and he smiled around it, feeling victorious at last. He had been making it up as he went along, but evidently he was a bloody blow job king. 

Harry flopped back on the bed, still moaning softly. He looked wrecked and Draco felt like all his dreams had come true. He had destroyed Harry Potter with only his mouth and hands. But now what was happening? Harry had pulled himself up on the bed and rolled on his stomach. The sight of his round, firm buttocks hit Draco like a ton of bricks. 

His cock throbbed—he hadn’t come despite the intense arousal giving his first blow job had incited. Frankly, he was shocked he hadn’t blown his wad in his pants, but put it down to the tempering effects of the painful deep-throating. Harry shifted on the bed and patted the space next to him, turning his head towards Draco and opening his eyes, slanting a lewd grin at him. 

Draco took off his shirt and lay down, trembling with need and anticipation. Harry glanced downwards and said, “Looks like you need some help with that.” Draco rolled towards him and covered Harry’s stupid mouth with his own, partly to prevent him making more stupidly obvious observations, and partly just because he wanted to get his mouth back on Harry’s. He felt a warm sensation in his chest, as if he was being filled with light from the core of his being. It was a dangerous feeling, he knew, but at the moment he couldn’t be bothered to suppress it. 

Harry’s hands fumbled with Draco’s belt and placket, and Draco exasperatedly and wordlessly Banished all of his clothes south of his waist. Soon he was rutting up against the other boy and Harry was clutching his arse, helping Draco grind up against his half-hard cock as they kissed sloppily. Harry pulled away slightly and Draco followed him with a moan, but Harry put a hand between them on Draco’s chest and murmured, “Do you want to try, um? Fucking me?”

Draco could not believe his luck. He nodded slowly, then rolled off of Potter who had started to get up on his hands and knees. “Do you really want to?” he asked unsteadily. 

Harry stretched out to rummage in a drawer and came up with some lube. “I’ve been, uh, practicing on myself. Reckon I’m still kind of, er, ready from this morning,” he said, all stammers and blushes and so fucking hot Draco thought he might die. Harry unscrewed the lid and scooped out a few dollops of very slick-looking substance. Glancing shyly at Draco, he offered his fingers to Draco and said, “Here, take some.” 

Draco slid his fingers along Harry’s, getting them coated in the stuff, and watched as Harry turned to probe his own arse with the lube. Draco slicked his now-painfully hard erection with his lubed fingers as Harry’s fingers slid hypnotically in and out of his arse. Harry’s eyes were closed; he was biting his lip and looking blissed out, his cock hard again and bouncing with the rhythm of his motion. He muttered something about putting it in now, and Draco clumsily shifted himself into position behind Harry. His hole was stretched and shiny with lube, and Draco could not believe he was allowed to try to put his prick inside of … _inside of Harry_. He was about to be inside of Harry. He swallowed and was surprised to find a lump in his throat. This was real. This was really happening. 

Draco’s cock pulsed in his hand and he knew he was too close to coming, but it was now or never. How could he miss this chance? Putting the head up against Harry’s loose furl, he pushed forward into the tightest, hottest vise he’d ever imagined. He gasped in ecstasy—and came as he slid all the way in. It was simultaneously the most erotic and the most humiliating thing that had ever happened to him. He withdrew and sat on his heels, breathing hard. Even the sight of his come dripping out of Harry’s arse couldn’t cheer him. 

“Sorry about that, Potter,” Draco said after a few moments of processing just how bad the situation was. Harry hadn’t said anything, but he was likely shocked into silence by the decrepitude of Draco’s performance. 

“Nothing to apologize for,” Harry said, but that was a patent lie. “For a first time, it was memorable,”’ he said and then winced slightly. Draco slid off the bed and retrieved his shirt from the floor.

“Best to get all the awkwardness out of the way, I thought,” Draco said, trying to play it off. “It’s a good thing we’re just fucking around, or I would be pretty embarrassed right now.” He was turned away from Harry, looking around for his trousers until he realized he had Banished them. He conjured himself some indistinct but serviceable-enough trousers and pulled them on, hoping that Harry couldn’t tell just how humiliated he was.

It didn’t occur to him until later that Harry didn’t contradict him. They were just fucking around, apparently. Nothing more to it than that. 

And actually, as it turned out, nothing more to it at all. That had been the last time. After that encounter, Potter was always surrounded by his friends, or just not around at all. Then school had ended and that was that. They moved on. Well, Harry moved on, at any rate. 

Over the years, Draco had had time to contemplate what had changed Harry’s mind about him—about them. He still wasn’t completely sure, but he had his theories. At first, of course, he’d thought that Harry was repelled by Draco’s lack of stamina. There were few things more embarrassing than coming immediately after entering someone. Or perhaps Harry had thought his cock was less than impressive, considering what he had to compare it to. 

As he got older, Draco saw these for the neurotic fears that they were. The answer was more likely that Harry hadn’t been ready to come out at the time. It could still be a tough thing, living out in the open as a gay wizard, the more so when public scrutiny was unavoidable—and in Harry’s case, inevitable.

Another safe bet was that Harry hadn’t wanted things to go farther based on their fraught history. People would certainly have caused problems for them, had anyone ever found out. His parents, Harry’s surrogate family— the entire wizarding world, the press, the Ministry even. Their involvement would have caused a scandal of enormous proportions. 

Neither possibility gave him any comfort, and neither really seemed likely. Something had gone wrong, that was certain, but it might remain a mystery indefinitely. In the meantime, Draco had to assume that Harry just wasn’t ready for him yet. The question was, when would he be? Or was it already too late?

\\\\\\\\\/////

Another workday was winding to a close. Draco didn’t know whether it was a good or bad sign that he and Harry hadn’t been sent out in the field for over a week—when was quiet “too quiet?” He’d been expecting Mulciber and his gang to make a move for almost a month, but nothing had happened since the attack on the Muggle nightclub. It had given him plenty of opportunity to indulge in his favorite past time of surreptitiously observing Harry, but that was a mixed blessing at best.

A now-familiar twoo-whit twoo-woo alerted him to Howlett’s approach. His stomach flipped over; great, more competition. 

Harry walked into the office from the tea cart, holding a stack of files for their case that someone had dumped on him. The owl bumped into him from behind, on his way to landing on Draco’s shoulder. The stack teetered then toppled, causing Harry to swear and drop to the ground to retrieve them.

Meanwhile, the owl pecked at Draco’s ear and was shaking its leg agitatedly. “Alright if I relieve Master Howlett of his burdens, Potter? I wouldn’t want to interrupt your progress.”

“A little help would be nice, Malfoy. But whatever.” Harry muttered, not seeming too excited by the prospect of another message from a would-be paramour. 

“Howlett seems anxious—hold up, what’s this? Two messages in one day? Aren’t you the popular young lad.” 

“Not so young,” Harry grunted as he clambered up from the floor, files haphazardly clutched to his chest. His glasses were askew and it was all Draco could do not to put them to rights. Luckily, his hands were engaged. He unrolled the first message.

“From BadgerKing. If that’s not a Hufflepuff, I’ll eat my pants. ‘Dear Whiskeytart, I have high standards and impeccable taste, and because of that, I could tell that we should meet. You are by far the handsomest and most accomplished of the matches this service provided.’ Oh Salazar, Potter— this git talks like you’re a commodity to be bought! Do you think he might polish you and put you on a shelf after purchasing you? ‘I expect the best out of life and out of my partner, but in return I deliver the best as well.’ Well, that’s comforting. What a knob. I don’t think I can keep reading this.” Obviously this was Smith. _What a wanker._

Harry laughed. “Please don’t. What’s the other one say?”

Draco obligingly unrolled the other parchment. This one—ugh, this one reeked of Slytherin. It wasn’t only the exquisite penmanship and green ink (what a giveaway, though), it was that it clearly had an agenda. It was a blatant seduction. He skimmed it and blanched at the thought of reading it aloud to Potter. 

Not only did it echo many of the sentiments and fantasies he harbored about the man sitting opposite him in a broken-down office chair, but it was _very_ well-written. Reading it was nearly giving him a boner as well as causing an ache in his guts. He fought the urge to crumple it up and instead neatly rolled it and handed it over. 

“Might want to read this one in private, Potter. I’m afraid it might make you blush.” He would strangle Malcolm Baddock the next time he saw him.

Harry raised his eyebrows and opened the scroll, scanning it with an ever-increasing look of incredulity on his face. When he finished, he was indeed somewhat flushed. 

“Well, this makes three strikes. I think that leaves around eight or nine more matches that could write me. Hopefully they aren’t all this bad. I’m starting to feel like this wasn’t a great idea.”

“So, you’re just waiting to be contacted? Have you not written anyone?” Draco asked, mildly apprehensive of the answer. 

“No, I haven’t really felt the urge to yet. I’m just going to see what happens.” Harry was busy rearranging the pile of file folders into something less catastrophically disorganized and Draco watched the play of his muscles under his forearms, watched his broad, capable hands shuffling the folders. His hands were a little rougher looking than they had been a few years ago. The quality of his skin had changed ever so slightly in the past few years. No matter—he still wanted those hands on him, those arms around him. In every way, in the worst way. 

It hit him with the force of a Bludger—he was never not going to love Harry. He’d known the man for twenty years; had watched him grow up, mature, ripen and was now in the beginning stages of watching him age. Through it all his attraction had only strengthened, and Draco could see what Harry would look like at forty, fifty—seventy—ninety. Harry would change, but Draco’s orientation towards him, like a heliotropic plant to the sun, would never alter. He was going to desire him no matter what transformations time wrought. He felt exalted, he felt doomed. 

He felt a little sick to his stomach, actually.

Harry made a noise of file-related frustration and muttered something about Miranda as he walked out the door. Draco turned in his desk chair to face his desk and came face-to-face with the owl, leaning towards him.

“Salazar Slytherin, you scared the life out of me! Stop doing that!” Draco ran his hand through his hair and then patted it back into place. “You’re looking for a treat, aren’t you? Well, I can’t say I haven’t set the precedent but you really must learn about personal space, dear bubo.” Howlett twoo-witted excitedly. Or angrily. It was hard to tell. Draco felt around in his drawer for a Vole Lolly. The owl delicately took it from his fingers and swept out in a silent flurry of feathers. 

Okay, time to get to that stack of files and see what parallels there might be in Mulciber’s targets. They had a raid scheduled in three days and it would be helpful to get a little more specificity on possible motives so they would know what to look for when they got the group cornered.

\\\\\\\\\/////

Draco entered the ancient-looking row house after Harry. It had obviously once been a grand wizarding household, but what with having fallen into Harry’s hands it showed signs of rather severe neglect. Harry was moving slowly, as one would after having taken a glancing curse on the flank from an evil-minded wizard like Mulciber. The raid had gone awry and the suspected co-conspirators had gotten away—a real cock-up. He blamed the Ministry’s file clerks.

They’d come here to patch Harry up; his aversion to special treatment apparently extended to utilizing actual medical professionals. In truth it was more that he couldn’t stand being gawked at and treated like a celebrity at St. Mungo’s, but Draco still thought it was a bit over his own pay grade to have to heal wounds and kiss boo-boos. Not that there weren’t things on Harry he would like to—

He hadn’t gotten more than two feet in when the fluttering drapes on the wall near the door caught his eye. Harry had trudged a few steps further down the hall. Draco lifted the corner of the drape to hear a shrill voice screech, “Filth! Blood traitors and mudbloods!” He nearly let the drape fall but something about the voice was familiar. He lifted it all the way up, aware that Harry had turned around and was motioning for him to cover up the portrait revealed underneath. 

It was his great-Aunt Black. She caught sight of Draco and trailed off, her eyes narrowing and mouth pursing. “You! You have the look of a Black about you. Come closer, young man!” Draco gritted his teeth and stayed where he was. She scowled grimly at him. “Impertinence! Ah, but yes, you most certainly have the Black blood, you bear a striking resemblance to my niece, Bellatrix. A most loyal and inventive—” Draco dropped the drape and the portrait’s words were mercifully muffled. 

“No bird of grace ever lit on Auntie Walburga,” Draco said, trying to make light of the situation. “She couldn’t budge a smile and do it for free.” He really didn’t appreciate the reminder that he and his family were affiliated with vicious and unrepentant racists like Walburga; Harry already had enough reasons not to want to be involved with him. Not that it was on the table, exactly.

Harry looked torn between mortification and irritation. “Can you come with me, now? This curse burn hurts like a motherfucker.” 

Draco dutifully followed him to the second-floor loo, where Harry rummaged through a cabinet for supplies and then, instead of returning to a parlor or sitting room or some neutral ground, ushered him across the hall into what appeared to be a bedroom. Harry’s bedroom. Where Harry proceeded to remove his ruined shirt. 

Even back in their last year at Hogwarts when they had been fooling around, Draco had hardly seen Harry undressed. And while they’d been Auror partners for years, the number of times they’d showered in each others’ presence were few—and Draco had never felt at liberty to ogle the other man the way he’d wanted to. 

So now, with Harry in the midst of an owl-assisted search for his soulmate, Draco found himself at last with permission to look at Harry’s naked torso, permission to touch for the first time in the long intervening years. He commanded himself not to dissociate simply for the purpose of getting through it unscathed. He would enjoy this, damn it. It wasn’t under ideal circumstances but it was the closest he would come to getting what he wanted any time soon.

“What are you waiting for? I’ve got the stuff right here,” Harry asked tetchily, waving his hand at the salve, bandages and travel-sized healing spell book on the bedside table. Draco started out of his reverie. 

“Yes, ready,” he muttered as he picked up the spell book. “Which of these should I use, do you think?”

Harry leaned in and peered at the book, tickling Draco’s cheek with his hair and causing Draco’s breath to catch in his throat. “Let me see,” he said, but instead of taking the book he just held Draco’s hand steady while he flipped the page. Draco closed his eyes and counted to five. Harry pointed. “This one.”

“This one” was a multi-purpose healing spell with purification properties. It would stabilize the area without potentially aggravating any dark magic that might be involved and would give Harry time to assess how he felt and whether he might have to visit St. Mungo’s after all. It did state, however, that Healer Horowitz’ Magical Mollification Salve and Unguent be applied directly after use— he flipped the book over and sure enough, this was an advertising pamphlet for aforementioned salve (and unguent). Oh well, be it on Potter’s head if it didn’t work and he ended up with a permanent curse scar on his flank. 

“I really think you should go to—”

“Are you going to do this or not, Malfoy?” Harry demanded. He was gritting his teeth. Fuck, it must really hurt. Draco gathered himself and got his wand out.

“Okay, why don’t you sit down, Potter?” 

Harry sat himself on the bed and Draco kneeled in front of him, wand at the ready. He read the spell over a few times and practiced the wand movement, then cast the spell and watched as the curse burn bubbled and subsided into a pale shadow of its former self. His eyes left the remnants of the curse to briefly travel over the ridges and valleys of Harry’s musculature— he was still in excellent shape. Draco’s fingers itched to linger over the smooth skin and then he realized—that’s exactly what they were about to do. He swallowed.

He picked up the salve and unscrewed the cap. It smelled pretty good for a healing salve. Dipping his fingers into it, he was reminded of his own preferred brand of lubrication and how it looked on his fingers as he prepared someone. His cock rose at the fleeting thought and he willed it down. Draco applied the thick, slick substance to Harry’s side while trying not to think the words “thick” and “slick” and completely failing. 

He had a vivid sense memory of the substance he’d used to open Harry up that time, that one time so long ago. What he really wanted was to take Harry’s trousers and pants down and be applying this stuff between his legs again. He wanted to press his legs apart and see that tender little hole waiting for him to open it up, to ease it wider and wider until he could show Harry how much he’d learned since — _oh fuck, no._

His cock was fully hard. The air in the room was stifling. He glanced up and caught Harry looking straight back at him and he couldn’t—he couldn’t help it. His eyes drifted down from Harry’s gaze and locked on his lips. It was like he was being pulled in, helpless against the monstrous force of this attraction. Harry leaned in a fraction and Draco’s heart started beating frantically as his eyes slid shut. 

Then Harry stood up and cleared his throat. 

“It’ll probably be easier for you to wrap the wound if I’m standing,” he said as Draco stared up at him from the floor, head spinning. 

Draco rose and tried to control himself. He was flushed and short of breath. To hide his confusion and severe disappointment, he busied himself unspooling the bandages and locating the fasteners. He didn’t trust his voice at the moment, so once he had the stretchy fabric ready, he simply nudged Harry’s arms to lift it up out of the way. 

But — _oh no_ —in order to wrap the bandage around him, he had to get practically on top of Harry and reach all the way around his torso with both arms, bringing their heads close enough to—well. Draco’s heart started racing again, having scarcely returned to normal. It was everything he could do not to turn his head and press an open-mouthed kiss to the strong neck just inches away from his face. Harry smelled criminally good; this situation was a nightmare hellscape. The only way to get through it was to dwell on the rejection that had just occurred not half a minute ago. 

He stared at the wall over Harry’s shoulder as his hands fumbled the fabric around his waist three times, trying to breath through his mouth so he wouldn’t be driven mad by the man’s scent. When Draco ran out of bandage, he heaved a sigh of relief. Now where had those fasteners gotten off to? He looked down at the bed, over to the table—they had vanished. Wanting to finish the job and retreat to safety, he tucked the end of the bandage under the wrap with one finger, accidentally pressing into the flesh beneath and making Harry flinch and gasp. 

“Sorry!” He could feel the blood rushing to his cheeks. “I’ll just—” he waved his wand and muttered a sticking spell so the bandage would stay put. Harry looked at him with an oddly blank expression, then went to the dresser for a new shirt, which he eased into with a grimace.

“Does it still hurt?” Draco asked, trying to sound all business. 

“No, it’s much better,” Harry replied, facing away from him. “Thanks for your help. Although maybe don’t be so free with your fingers next time.” 

Draco could hear the smile in his voice and knew that the humiliation he felt was unnecessary, but it didn’t change the fact that he was furious with himself for almost losing control like that.

“I’ve got to use the loo, meet you downstairs?” he said over his shoulder as he walked out of the room. Harry mumbled something in the affirmative that he heard as the loo door closed. 

Draco undid his flies and briefly contemplated rubbing one out, but thought better of it. He didn’t think he’d be able to eliminate all sound, and Harry might notice the slight aural distortion of a Silencio cast so close to him.

Besides, he didn’t need to dwell on the disaster that had just been narrowly avoided. He kept seeing Harry leaning into him, and feeling his heart plummet all over again when he stood up instead of meeting Draco’s lips in a kiss. 

What he needed was some anonymous sex at a seedy club. He was too pent-up, it was starting to cause problems. Even Harry was starting to notice and that was not on.

\\\\\\\\\/////

Club Louche had been a total waste of time. Even though the place had been packed to the gills with hot men, none of them had roused his curiosity at all. Draco had thought that perhaps alcohol would boost his libido and make him less discerning, but the only result was a terrible hangover that now threatened to make his workday unbearable. He was hunched over, rummaging through his desk drawer for the remnants of a painkilling potion when he heard a clatter against the file cabinet.

Draco closed his eyes against the renewed pain caused by the racket. “If it’s that damned owl,” he muttered, then sat up and opened his eyes to see Howlett fluttering barely an inch away from his face.

“Fucking hell!” he yelled, then spun around in his chair. The owl flew around and attempted to hover in front of him, awkwardly holding out a scroll. 

“I don’t want his bloody messages, you hellbeast! Come back when he’s in! Goddamn it!”

The owl flapped in and actually nipped at his nose. Draco had to forcibly remind himself that owl-abuse was a chargeable offense and refrained from striking out at the presumptuous creature. “Fine! I give in! Hand it over.” 

He untied the message from the owl’s leg, muttering that he wasn’t the one to sign up for the service, he didn’t know why the owl kept giving him the sodding messages. Unspooling it roughly, he read the message.

_From SeekChaseKeep:_

_Dear Whiskeytart— let’s cut to the chase(r). I love Quidditch. I see that you do, too. My life goal is to be with someone who loves the same things I do, and Quidditch, for better or worse, is at the top of that list. I can see from your picture that you have a Seeker’s build—my absolute favorite. There was a Seeker on my team at school I had a little crush on, actually. Very talented and very humble. Sadly, he was too young for me at the time. But on to the point! I hate beating around the bludger._

_You seem straightforward, unpretentious and fun. I’m a keeper, in both senses of the word, and I think that you may be, too. Owl me if you’re game and we’ll go to a match!_

_PS-(all puns intended)_

Well, bloody buggering fuck. Draco struggled with an impulse to hide the message. Or better yet, destroy it. This was clearly Oliver Wood. Harry might actually go for this. Harry would _definitely_ go for this. He was charming, albeit goofy—but considering that Ron Weasley was Harry’s best friend, Harry might see that as an asset for Merlin’s sake. He put a priority on something that he and Harry had in common. They had similar goals and interests. He was fucking hot. Draco was going to be alone for the rest of his life, was the upshot of this message. 

He flashed on the previous evening at Harry’s mouldering old mansion, how Harry had clearly seen the desire that Draco couldn’t hide and had avoided it.

Draco knew he was catastrophizing. He recognized all the signs from sixth year. Of course, in sixth year he’d been proven right. 

The message was still in his hand. He needed to decide what to do. 

Fuck it. If Harry was going to insist on his treacly-sweet view of romance and partnership, he couldn’t do better than Wood. He was welcome to it. He tossed the parchment on Harry’s desk and stormed for the door, only to be nearly bowled over by Potter’s solid form.

“Watch it!” he barked, too pissed off to moderate his tone. 

“Woah, sorry, I didn’t see you!” Harry held up his hands in mock defense. Draco glared at him —he couldn’t help his mood after reading that awful message.

“There’s a message for you,” he all but growled. 

“Oh! Did you read it?” Harry asked, sounding uncertain.

“Yeah, I think you’re going to—nevermind, I’m—I need some coffee. Read your message, I’m sure this twat will be just your cup of tea.” Draco’s gut twisted as he spat the poisonous words. He couldn’t stand to see Harry’s face so he slammed out of the room. 

Deep breaths, he counseled himself. He slugged back some hot coffee, choking as it burned his throat. Perfect. A perfect metaphor for his life—burned again. He sneered at his brain’s shitty attempt to find meaning in the random events of office life. What a fucking drama queen he was.

Draco walked back into the office, still seething with rage but this time directed mostly at himself. Harry looked at him over the parchment he was reading, a smile still on his face. The smile faded. “You were right, I do like this message,” Harry said, something strange in his voice. “You seem out of sorts. I’ll give you some space,” he continued, passing Draco with a piercing look on his way out the door. He had the message with him.

Draco slumped into his chair, laying his head on his desk. He closed his eyes and tried not to think of Harry dating Oliver Wood, but it was no use. The trouble was, it made sense. He could see them together. The best part was that the Wizarding World would go bananas for this—they would eat it up with a spoon. Fury rose in his chest at the thought of the swooning reception Potter and Wood would receive. He looked up right into the golden eyes of the—

“Stupid bloody bird, just leave already!! Stop sneaking up on me! Stop bringing me Potter’s messages! I didn’t sign up for your stupid service!” He was standing up and flailing at the owl now, and the bird was fluttering around just out of reach, as if it were taunting him. “And NO TREATS for bringing Wood’s message! Go away!”

He sat down, feeling guilty for taking his ire out on a poor dumb animal. That didn’t stop him from swatting at it feebly when it pecked his shoulder from its perch on a stack of files. “What. Do. You. Want. I’m—” he broke off, noticing that there was another tightly rolled parchment on its leg that he hadn’t noticed earlier. 

“Oh hell, another one? Well,” he laughed bitterly, “I’m afraid this bloke is shit out of luck. Potter just found his soulmate.” The owl nipped his hand once, twice. 

“Fine, I’ll have a look. How much worse could it get?” 

Draco unrolled the parchment and reluctantly skimmed it. Slowly it sank in that this wasn’t a message. Or rather it was, but of avian origin. It was a bloody application for the service, and that bloody owl wanted him to sign up. 

“You want me to sign up for the service? Are you daft?” Howlett slowly swiveled its head from right to left. It picked up a quill and proffered it to Draco, who took it and stared at it as though he’d forgotten what it was used for. It gradually dawned on him that the owl’s strange behavior, which he had attributed to the superior quality of his treats selection, had been the animal’s way of telling him he ought to sign up.

“This was your plan all along, wasn’t it?” Draco said, a disbelieving half-smile sneaking its way onto his face. “You—Oh! That’s why you’re always delivering the messages to me—because you think—” A dawning feeling of hope suffused his chest, a feeling so unfamiliar he barely recognized it. 

Scribbling quickly to complete the application before Harry could walk in on him, he filled out all the blanks, ticked all the boxes and had the parchment rolled up and attached to the owl’s leg within five minutes. “Shoo! Get! Oh, here, have a Rat Tart—it’s only got a bit of rat in it, but it’s all I’ve got left.” He tossed the treat into the air and watched as Howlett dove gracefully to catch it, then winged away, Draco’s fate in his talons.

As soon as the owl was gone, Draco realized that he’d allowed himself to get carried away. Of course the owl wanted him to sign up. It wanted all the queer wizards subscribed to its service, the better to make scads of Galleons from. It didn’t mean anything. He deflated slightly, but the satisfaction of finally having done something lingered in spite of it. Now he just had to wait and see if the owls put him on Harry’s list of matches. Hopefully before he had his first date with Wood and subsequently got engaged to be married.

\\\\\\\\\/////

Draco stumbled out of the Ministry Floo, dusting himself off and looking around to make sure there were no witnesses to his uncharacteristic lack of grace. He’d barely slept the night before, in knots over his subscription and when it would bear results—or not. How long had it taken Harry to get his matches? He couldn’t remember. What if he wasn’t matched with Harry? And wait a tick—how would he even _know_?

The service spelled the subscriber’s matches to anonymity, that was the whole point. The subscription pamphlet had explained that the spell affected not just the pictures but the profiles and messages too. It was to mask characteristic habits of speech, which were as unique as one’s physical appearance. Draco wouldn’t be able to tell from image or text who he was looking at. He would have to wait to see who he got and then…. guess? Merlin, he didn’t want to write to just any Tom, Dick or…. He grimaced at his awful brain’s attempt at a joke. He hoped this wasn’t going to be a huge waste of time. He would throttle that feathered beast if this turned out to be a boondoggle. 

Arriving in their office, Draco slung his lightweight robe on the rack and sat himself in his chair, only to rise and pace the floor. He glanced at some files that urgently needed his full and undivided attention. However, they failed to hold even a scrap of his attention. Harry and he still hadn’t even finished the report on the botched raid but Draco couldn’t bring himself to care: wonderful, now this madness was going to cost him his job. 

Mercifully, just as Draco was about to give himself an ulcer, Howlett swept in. Draco knew on an intellectual level that an owl was not physically capable of facial expressions. Nevertheless, he would swear on his father’s eventual grave that the bird looked smug. It flumpffed itself on the file cabinet, feathers askew, and waggled a leg at Draco. 

Draco’s heart was in his chest. There were two parchments tied to that leg. Two meant that one of them was his matches and the other was—well, probably just another bloody message for Harry. 

Okay, time for the moment of truth. Was Harry on his matches list? If he wasn’t, Draco would write a sternly worded complaint letter to the owner of the service demanding his money back and compensation for intentional infliction of emotional distress. Or maybe that didn’t exist in the Wizarding world. He needed to stop watching so many episodes of Law and Order. 

Draco fumbled one scroll off of Howlett’s leg and unrolled it, hands trembling slightly. It was his list of matches. There was one profile on it. 

One. 

His mind went blank for a moment. Only one? Truly? He tried to process what that could mean. A million hopes and fears crowded his brain and he shook his head to clear it. Really, the number was irrelevant, if a bit concerning. The real question was— _who was it?_

He stared and stared at the picture attached to the profile. The bloke was bloody gorgeous, whoever he was. Draco was befuddled—he’d expected to know whether it was Harry, spell or no. Draco felt like his heart would recognize Harry anywhere, under any circumstance. If he was blinded, deafened and immobilized; Confunded and Obliviated. He’d recognized Harry when he was horribly disfigured at the Manor, so altered that even some of his housemates might not have. Harry was ingrained in his soul, Harry was woven into the fabric of his mind. Draco hadn’t really expected the anonymizing spell to work on him. 

So perhaps that meant… no, wait. He moved from the pictures to the text of the profile. Surely that would reveal the identity of the match, as Draco had helped to write it. He scanned the words and they seemed familiar, but not exactly what he thought he’d written. They were definitely ringing a bell, though. Or… hm. That could just be the effect of having read so many profiles and messages lately. He was reading too much into this. A long sigh escaped him.

Draco felt emotionally drained and he hadn’t even learned anything. Should he just … write to this person? See what happened? 

The owl hopped down on the desk and butted his hand, holding its leg out again. Draco absently petted its ear tufts and then said, “Oh, right. Best relieve you of that one, too.” 

He reluctantly unrolled the message and steeled himself to look at it. It was indeed addressed to Potter, but it took a moment to realise it wasn’t a new suitor’s message. It was clearly marked ‘Updated Matches! You Matched New Subscribers!’ There were two profiles on the list. Neither one was particularly compelling or attractive. His heart sank. Surely the anonymizing spell wouldn’t work on oneself. Firstly, he thought he was damned attractive. Secondly, his profile was blazingly charming and hilarious. If he were on this list, he would have bet a stack of Galleons he’d recognize _himself._

Well, he most likely had his answer. He wasn’t on Harry’s list and Harry wasn’t on his. There was an outside chance that the anonymizing spell was just surprisingly effective at concealing identities, but how likely was that when bloody _owls_ were running the show? He left Harry’s new matches on his desk and tossed Howlett a treat, then went to get some coffee and attempt to convince himself not to turn in his resignation. He could get through this. He was a Malfoy —surviving was their besetting virtue. 

\\\\\\\\\/////

When Draco returned to the office, gigantic coffee mug in hand, self-pity and despair firmly reined in, Harry was working excitedly on a report. Wait, _that_ was all wrong. Harry worked on reports occasionally, but never excitedly. Draco cleared his throat and Harry looked up, his face alight with animation. 

“What’re you working on?” His voice sounded as gravelly as if he hadn’t spoken in weeks, but Harry didn’t comment on it.

“Got some new matches from the service—didn’t you look? I thought you were so intent on monitoring my stupidity,” Harry said, eyes glinting with mischief.

“No, I’ve lost interest in all that. Whatever gets you through, Potter.” Draco sat at his desk with calm deliberateness, while internally he fell apart, piece after piece of him pitching over a cliff. Harry was writing to someone. Great.

“Well, I’m finally writing to someone! This new bloke seems—well, he’s—I can’t put it into words but he sparks something in me. I think maybe...” he trailed off, turning again to his letter.

Draco would normally have made a snarky comment such as, “I hope you’re more articulate on paper than in person, Potter,” but he was too rattled to say much of anything at the moment. He rose from his chair with his coffee mug, taking care to appear unconcerned and unruffled. “Forgot to add sugar,” he murmured, knowing that Harry was paying no attention. All for the best, really.

In a daze, he walked to the tea cart and dropped his mug on it, then gathered himself and strode to the training room, which was not in use at this hour of the day. He would hide out there until after lunch and then excuse himself from work with food poisoning. 

The most tortuous part of this experience was that, in spite of himself, he kept thinking that all hope was not lost. Maybe the anonymizing spell really was just terribly effective. Maybe he really was on Harry’s list. Maybe of the two people, Harry was writing him. It was a lot of maybes. Too many for Draco to believe in it. Malfoys didn’t do “maybes.” They did sure bets, and even then they needed them in writing.

He was sitting against the wall on a practice mat, arms propped up on his bent knees, head resting on his wrists, when he felt the disturbance of air near his right leg. He refused to look. It wasn’t Howlett. It wasn’t. 

It was. 

It was Howlett the Whoo Knew? Personals Service for Queer Wix owl, and he had a message. 

For Draco.

Unless he was just really, really determined to keep giving Harry’s messages to Draco.

Draco took the message off of Howlett’s leg and shakily unrolled it. His nervous system was really having a wild ride today. 

_Dear HawtUnicorn,_

_I’ve been waiting to get matched with someone like you. Aside from your physical beauty, you seem like the kind of person I could trust, who would tell the truth even when it was unpleasant, who would have my back even when it was challenging or inconvenient. I used to think I wanted to be with someone similar to myself but these days I’m not so sure. Have you ever thought that maybe being in a relationship is like being a part of a puzzle? If the pieces are too similar, the picture will lack depth and interest._

_I hope you liked my profile and want to have more contact. Please don’t be surprised if I ask that we take it slow. I’ve been moving too fast lately and it’s not getting me anywhere. I want to get know all of you._

It was the oddest thing, coming this close to getting what you wanted, Draco thought. It didn’t feel real. He couldn’t believe in it, not really. His body believed it, though. His head and stomach and limbs felt like they’d had Wingardium Leviosa cast on them. 

But his brain was holding firm. This message wasn’t necessarily from Harry. He hadn’t recognized the profile. He couldn’t be sure that he wasn’t just wrapped up in wishful thinking once again. 

There was only one way to know for sure. 

Feeling like he might float into the air, he made his way back to the office. It felt like it took years to get there. He was painfully ambivalent about whether he wanted Harry to be in the office or not.

Perhaps it would be best if Harry weren’t in. There was a large part of Draco that wanted to postpone, delay, obstruct—to give himself more time. This all felt to Draco like a final exam on the meaning of life. The stakes were sky high and he didn’t know if he could survive a fall. 

At least with the way things were, Draco had his fantasies to cling to. Some days that was enough. And on the days that the fantasies were insufficient, he usually found a way to stand close enough to his partner that he could smell his scent, bask in his body heat, feel the prickle of electricity between their two bodies. It finally dawned on him that it was pathetic to hang on to these scraps when the whole man might be waiting for him, just on the other side of that door. Pathetic and dishonest. Didn’t he deserve better? Didn’t Potter?

The door loomed before him. He put out his hand and pushed it open.

On entering, Draco saw Harry hunched over his desk, looking strained and distracted. He didn’t say anything. Draco didn’t need or want Harry’s attention at the moment. He felt the scroll in his pocket and tried to remain calm. 

Seating himself at his desk, Draco felt more than saw Harry turn and glance at him. He didn’t look over and Harry looked away, back at his own work. The air between them felt fraught with tension, but perhaps that was just Draco’s mental state coloring the situation. He reached for a sheet of blank parchment and a quill.

_I’m going to assume that this is my dear colleague and if it’s not, then you will be very confused. Please know, whoever you are, that while I’m sure you’re a wonderful person, I’m far too hung up on someone else to give you a fair shot. Many apologies._

_H—I am in agreement with nearly all of what you said. Not just that I’m beautiful, though that is of course excellent to hear and flattery will get you everywhere. But I was thinking of another part of your letter, where you talk about being a piece in a puzzle. I have thought for a long time that the picture we might make together would be something spectacular._

_I’m relieved that you’ve finally decided that looking for your twin was a terrible romantic strategy. As you can’t help but be aware, I’m a unique individual and I see that as a strength. I push back. I challenge. I persist. I don’t want romance as an escape from real life. Real love doesn’t feel like a fantasy. I don’t want some fantasy “soulmate,” I want a real person who can see me clearly and who understands that flaws and differences are part of what it means to be alive. I want you. I want to know all of you. But it might take less time than you think._

As Draco put down his quill, his breath was coming fast and he was breaking a sweat. He didn’t have to look at Harry to know that he was very aware that something of significance was happening. The atmosphere was thick with the sense of time suspended. Draco felt the beginnings of a panic attack rise within his chest. He straightened in his chair so he could take in a full breath, and as he did so, Harry turned fully towards him and caught his eye. 

Holding Harry’s gaze, he tapped his wand to the parchment he’d just finished inscribing. Harry blinked and leaned forward, a disbelieving expression on his face. They stared at each other for nearly half a minute while Draco’s heart pounded and then Howlett burst in and landed on Draco’s shoulder with a joyful twoo-whit twoo-woo. Draco broke his gaze away from Harry’s to roll the parchment up and tie it to Howlett’s leg. He felt like he was about to faint. 

Howlett nipped his ear softly and launched himself from Draco’s shoulder into the air. He circled the room once, then landed decisively on Harry’s desk. Draco couldn’t have looked away from Harry if enraged Centaurs had stormed the office with flaming crossbows. Harry stood up, his face a picture of amazement. He took the message off Howlett’s leg and unrolled it, the parchment shaking slightly. 

Draco’s heart was in his throat, watching the expression on Harry’s face change from astonishment to solemnity to a small, secret smile that lit Draco on fire from head to toe. Harry glanced over at Draco once or twice while he read the message and Draco trembled with the effort to hold himself still. 

The pressure was getting to him. “It’s not a fucking novel, Potter. What’s taking so long?” Draco couldn’t help but ask.

“Shh,” Harry said, still absorbed in his reading.

At length, Harry put the message on the desk and stood there over it, gazing down at it with his hands braced on the back of his chair. Then he turned back towards Draco, an incredulous grin spreading slowly across his face. 

“So this isn’t just fucking around, then?” Harry asked, visibly restraining himself from crossing the small room to where Draco was now standing up from his chair. Draco shook his head. 

“I—fuck Potter, I’ve been wanting you for years. How did you not know?”

Harry moved so fast Draco’s head spun. He was right there, within touching distance. Within kissing distance. “I knew you wanted me. As far as I knew, you wanted lots of people. I— oh fuck it,” Harry broke off and twined his hands into the back of Draco’s hair, bringing his mouth right up to Draco’s but waiting for him to make the final move. “Do you want to pick up where we left off?”

“Yes, _please_ ,” Draco said into Harry’s mouth as he wrapped his arms around his torso and pulled Harry up against him.

“I thought—I didn’t know how you felt,” Harry murmured. “I joined the service wondering what might happen, whether you would do anything, but you were always going to the clubs and… You told me you were waiting for the “right one” or something. You refused to compromise, you said.”

“I was just marking time, Harry,” Draco said, flushing. “I’d already found the right one. I was really just waiting for the right time.”

“No time like the present,” Harry said in a low voice, and kissed Draco.

 

\\\\\\\\\/////

 

_Epilogue_

Draco moved inside Harry slowly, deliberately, watching every shifting muscle under the skin of his back, smoothing his hands over every square inch of flesh he could reach. They’d started fast and frantic, coming in their pants, but had gradually settled into this hypnotic, wordless deep dive into each other’s bodies. Kissing, groping, rutting, sucking—now fucking. Drowning in each other.

He lowered himself to place kisses all along Harry’s spine. Always Harry now, never Potter again. Draco never wanted to hear that damned last name cross his lips; the plosive sound of the P evoking problems, procrastination, pushing away. ‘Harry’ was much better, the soft sound of the H like a relieved and blissful exhalation, saying _here_ and _hallowed_ and _hallelujah._

Harry writhed underneath him, desperate and wanton. Draco’s cock slid in and out of his arse, the sight enthralling. He didn’t know where to rest his voracious gaze—on the slick rim of Harry’s tight arsehole, the full, firm cheeks spread wide for Draco’s cock, the heaving back flexing deliciously with every thrust, the thick mane of his sex-mussed hair, his head dropping down to watch his own prick bounce between his legs helplessly—every view incredible. He could never possibly get enough of this. His thrusts sped up involuntarily.

Harry’s head rocked back and forth as he keened and moaned Draco’s name. He was coming and his muscles clenched around the cock impaling him, pulling Draco’s own orgasm up through his spine. Euphoria swept through Draco like a tidal wave. He filled Harry’s arse with his come and felt like the whole world was just beginning. A magnificent vista spread before him, their lives intertwined and rolling out side by side, overlapping in a dovetailing pattern that described all the ways in which they completed each other.

He collapsed on top of Harry and rolled to the side, pulling the other man to him so they lay spooned against each other. Draco found another reason to be grateful for his superior height as his head fit just so over Harry’s shoulder, allowing him to nuzzle the soft column of his neck with ease.

Harry made a satisfied humming noise and turned in Draco’s arms to face him. They studied each other’s faces slowly, carefully. 

“I’m glad you finally opened your eyes to what was right in front of you, Harry. _Who knew_ that I would be the one?” 

“I did,” Harry said.

 

The End

**Author's Note:**

> I knew I needed this prompt as soon as I saw it. Not only do I love writing for the delightful birdsofshore, but I have had extensive experience with the disappointments of personals services and even more extensive experience of having a crush on a co-worker that you don’t plan to act on but which tortures you for years. So, catharsis! 
> 
> I used the TV on the Radio song Will Do as inspiration for many of the scenes in this fic. Check it out, it’s a great song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dXLpXu9T7j0  
> And holy shit, I just watched the video, tears in my eyes, oh this fucking song, oh my god.
> 
> A small portion of Draco’s letter to Harry was inspired by an Ask Polly column from NY Magazine. I heart Heather Havrilevsky.
> 
> “No bird of grace ever lit on Auntie Walburga. She couldn’t budge a smile and do it for free.” - this is from the Monkee’s song Auntie Griselda. The Monkees was my first fandom as a tween and I couldn’t resist this nod. 
> 
> “Have a Rat Tart. It’s only got a bit of rat in it” - from a Monty Python sketch I used to quote compulsively to my friends. They hadn’t even ever seen MP but they had this sketch memorized because they loved me. That’s true love, friends.
> 
> Thanks for reading! All comments are extremely welcome either here or on [Livejournal](http://hd-fan-fair.livejournal.com/118822.html?mode=reply#add_comment).


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